


letters no one will ever read

by oceanknives



Category: La leggenda del pianista sull'oceano | The Legend of 1900 (1998), Novecento
Genre: Angst, Canon Continuation, Epistolary, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, i'm very proud of it but FUCK, just to warn y'all, this might just be the saddest thing i've ever written, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanknives/pseuds/oceanknives
Summary: "September 27, 1948Hey, Novecento.You're a bastard, you know."Tim wrote a letter.
Relationships: Danny Boodman T.D. Lemon Novecento/Tim Tooney
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	letters no one will ever read

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back on my bullshit, gang. Shared a bunch of Angsty Concepts™ with my best friend (Adam, I'm so sorry) and ended up writing a fic out of them. If you clicked on this : I'm *so* sorry, feel free to yell at me for writing heartbreaking bullshit, I deserve it.
> 
> Nonetheless, hope you enjoy !

September 27, 1948

Hey, Novecento.

You're a bastard, you know.  
I have other things to say, but that's the main one, really.  
You took me, a seventeen year old kid, barely a person, and made me understand life. Made me understand love. And then you made me watch it all blow up. I don't think you understand just how fucked up it all is. Here I was, on the dock, watching the best part of my life go up in flames, teenager all over again, almost twenty years fading away in a second, so small, so alone. That war really took everything, didn't it ? Sometimes, it feels like the burning heat of the explosion was the last time I ever felt warmth. Maybe you were the only warmth I knew.  
I remember, when I got the letter from O'Connor. They're blowing up the boat, he said. PS : Novecento didn't come down. I almost didn't come, you know ? I think I was scared to find you had never existed at all.

And I was right, wasn't I ? Because I didn't fall in love with a man, and I sure didn't fall in love with a boat. Here's the truth, Novecento : I fell in love with a ghost. They all forgot, out there, the story of the guy who played piano like a God but only on the ocean. They all forgot, but not me, never me, and I'm only one man, and even though I try, I can't remind them all. So here I am, Novecento, and it's like I'm the only one who knows, and it feels like holding it all in is going to kill me, so I smash piano keys with all the rage and bitterness I have and try to light a cigarette on the strings.  
It hasn't worked, so far.

Hey, tell me, dickhead, what was it like to leave all your desires behind ? To just say goodbye to everything you couldn't have ? You're one lucky son of a bitch, you know. Because I— I didn't do that. I couldn't. It still burns, in every fucking part of my body, the _want_ and the _need_. The promises we made about having a life. With kids, a house, a dog, a wife. Or none of that, really, just you and me, because that was all that mattered, in the end. The knowledge that you could have stepped on land, maybe, and that I would still have you by my side. If only land hadn't given you vertigo. You said you couldn't choose, and I don't blame you, but _I_ chose, my friend, I made my choice that night during the storm, and I kept making it from then on. I chose you, over and over, for the past twenty fucking years, and… fuck.

You're not insane when you find something that saves you, you said. Well insane I might just be, Novecento. Because I have nothing left, now. I even sold my trumpet. Couldn't stand playing it without you. I think music died that night, when you sat on that dynamite like it was a piano stool and finished your requiem. And yet I still hang on, a demented man at the end of a rope, I hang on to this, to you, to the story. It's one _hell_ of a story, and it's not saving me, fuck, I think it's killing me, but letting it die — letting _you_ die — would kill me too, so if I'm to die, then I'd rather it be screaming your name at anyone who will listen, as long as it's not just at myself. If I'm to die, Novecento, then it will be as it has always been : choosing you.

You were right.  
It's over for good.

Your friend,  
Tim Tooney.

PS : lemons are the most bitter food I know, but I still bite into them. I would do anything to have your name on my tongue.

* * *

October 10, 1945

Hi, Tim.

You just left the boat, and you will never read this letter, because it will blow up with me, but still. It needs to be written.

I didn't tell you everything, my friend. I said goodbye to joy when you came here. You know this. But here's something else. The moment you left this room, I said goodbye to love. And with this letter, I'm saying goodbye to you. To life. Same thing, really.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm the one who gets to get away, and I'm sorry you're the one who has to stay here with sorrow and grief. But Tim, you have to understand : you have a shot at this. You get it. You don't get vertigo, like me. You don't sway on land. I can't let you die with me tonight. I can't waste you to the world.

I did choose, you know. But I chose too late. Too slow. You had already left when I realised what it meant. You—

I'm sorry.

Your friend,  
Danny Boodman T.D. Lemon Novecento

PS : I still have your coat. It's the only warmth I know.


End file.
